Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Orin the Red first wakes in her cage, there is no one else in the room. This gives her something terribly valuable—time to adjust. She hears Fath—Bha—His voice in her head. 

No more Orin. Become murder. 

Tearing wrenching severing, the discarded lengths of flesh and the delicate trails of gore left behind as she crawls, body and mind destroyed by Murder and His Child. The fading into dark, into something gray and wide and bereft of all she has ever known. There is no embrace for her in death. She has failed. There is no room for failures in His domain.

And then—a tight grip on what remains of her. Something dragging her back, reassembling her form, drenching her in blood that lacks a sharpness she cannot describe. Sleep. Catatonia.

Waking. Orin the Red is awake. She reaches out with trembling fingers (still white, still shifting, still clouded with her own abilities, as if she deserves familiarity when she has failed him) and grasps one of the bars. She tries to stand—

—and collapses as a Glyph of Warding flashes beneath her, forcing her back to unnatural sleep. 

The second time Orin the Red wakes in her cage, she opens her eyes to a face full of dead scars.

“Hello, sister.” The traitor, failure, mirror bloodkin winner-of-the-duel corpse says. “What do you remember?”

They have the audacity to pull back before her nails can rake across their face. Coward.

Lae’zel is the one who pointed out the weapon they’re implicitly leaving her with. It came as no surprise that a trained Gith warrior would think of the damage that much hair could do in the hands of someone so skilled and creative with murder. 

“She could attempt to strangle herself,” Lae’zel had said, matter-of-factly. “It would be a waste of your effort.”

Col doesn’t know if it’s better that they were the one to wield the knife. Astarion had offered to do it, and though he likely would have made a more even and pleasing haircut, Col doesn’t trust him with a blade so near their sister’s throat. There’s a responsibility, too, in being the one to disarm her in this last, most personal way. 

Orin reaches up to touch her hair, perhaps already unbalanced by the lack of its weight now that it’s shorn so close to her scalp. It is the one concession Col truly regrets. They have molded their own body so carefully, every modification a plea for it to be theirs. To take away Orin’s hair when it was clearly precious to her gives them no pleasure. 

With her hair so short, her eyes appear larger. She seems more childlike than ever.

“The failure shears me while I sleep? Am I a sacrificial lamb, to be slaughtered in vain as it tries to earn Father’s love?” Her voice is cracked and raspy, her vitriol too thin to cover the newness of her body.

“You already tried that one with me,” Col says. “I think we can safely say it doesn’t work.”

It’s easy not to rise to her bait. She’s lashing out, trying to use her words as blades since they’ve left her bereft of everything she held dear. It’s cruel, what they’re doing. The others accused Col of selfishness, but in truth, none of them know the half of it.

This is the true selfishness. Not putting the inn at risk. Not requiring an extra person on watch. Not even tying Astarion’s future to a madwoman. The real selfishness is forcing a corpse back to life, just so Col can watch her try to bleed.

“What is this?” She tugs at the bars, scratches clipped nails through the fuzz on her scalp. “It brings me back from death—does it wish to duel again? Is it so desperate to affirm its success? Does the Slayer require target practice, bloodkin?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Col settles on the ground next to the cage, arranging their limbs casually enough that it might come across as insulting. They don’t particularly care. “I never lied to you, Orin. I rejected Bhaal’s gift. He killed me and left me to the Fugue Plane, same as you.”

Something bubbles in her throat. They can almost see the question staining her teeth. 

Go on. Ask me why, little sister. Demand answers, just like I did.

But she doesn’t. Orin curls in on herself, limbs twitching and blunted nails desperately trying to draw blood. They’ve defanged her entirely. She’s pathetic like this, nothing of her vicious artistry spinning like confidence through her nerves and tendons. Col feels sick just watching her.

It’s awful. No one loved her. Col had a family once (killed, brutalized, baby’s first slaughter) and after that, they had Sceleritas (hat leftover in his gore, in the Devil’s Fee, symbol of a creature who was once more than Bhaal’s servant, who was twisted and deranged but called them beloved, strong, wonderful Master). 

Orin had a mother who tried to sacrifice her and a grandfather (father) who spoke of her eventual death like a necessary, pleasurable chore. 

Perhaps you will be the one to teach her.

What is this now? Are they just blindly rebelling again?

“Why am I here?” 

Col startles. They don’t know how long the silence lasted until her shaky voice broke it. If anyone was here to witness their distraction with a murderer in the room, they’d surely be in for a lecture. (As if Orin is any threat to them—setting aside her amateur surgery and its still-lingering effects.)

They speak a half-truth. The whole truth is too harsh. They can hold back, be the calm one, the bigger person, the older, wiser sibling. “I only had a second chance because of you. I felt compelled to return the favor.”

“I do not want a second chance,” Orin hisses, staring at them with eyes wide, mouth twisted, the very picture of a miserable creature.

“Neither did I,” Col spits. “I would rather have died than become the plaything for a Myrkulite, but I was not afforded that mercy. If you dislike my pity now, then know it stems from your own foolishness.”

Well. So much for keeping their cool. They remember their walk with Astarion, relaxed and loose and honest. 

I have been raging about it since the beginning, somewhere in the basest parts of my mind that knew before I needed to remember.

Col stands and shoves out of the room, slamming the door behind them. 

This is my vengeance: that she must live when it would be so much easier to die.

Most of the party knows better than to ask how their first exchange went. For those who insist on curiosity (Gale who can’t help his thirst for knowledge, Minsc who has never heard of subtlety, Karlach who means so well), Col has only a blank expression and silence.

Astarion is already on one of the couches with a terribly inviting space next to him, exactly the right size for a monk who needs to slip into meditation. He doesn’t look up from his book when they take their place, only leans some of his weight against them. It’s grounding. His coolness keeps them anchored and his scent reminds them that they are safe, that they are home, that they are loved.

They lose themself to their mantras, floating in their conviction.

Coltanar’ri. Not outcast.

Colwaer. Not drifting.

Colarkhdrauth. Not wanton destruction.

Colsalen O’su. Not my father.

Coljiv'ress. Not torturer.

Coldaquim. Not danger.

Colsalen O’su.

Colsalen O’su.

Colsalen—

The peace is broken by a bloodcurdling scream.

Col’s eyes snap open and they take in the room and the sound of everyone’s panic. Astarion is still next to them, though he’s gone stiff and cautious. They hear Minsc blearily asking where his sword is and Jaheira lecturing him with a soldier’s alertness. The sounds of Karlach and Lae’zel readying their weapons echoes through the room, reminding Col that the shriek was only familiar to them.

Their mouth feels dry when they speak. “She finally fell asleep.”

The calm in their tone lowers the general anxiety of the room by several degrees. 

Shadowheart comes into the common area, with no sign of exhaustion. “How do you know?”

The answer comes from a part of their mind that’s still more fog than substance, only unveiled enough to recognize an old pattern.

“I know that dream.”

That makes Astarion jerk into motion and look at Col with open concern. “You mean…Bhaal is—”

Ah. That would be a worrisome precedent. “No, I mean I know it from before. She lived in the Temple as well.”

Orin cries out again, just as loud and agonized as before. “Grandfather!”

“...Oh.”

Oh indeed.

Karlach clears her throat, awkward in a way she so rarely is. “Should we do something?”

He’s your father, Orin. He abused your mother. He abused you. 

No. Not him. Not him…I did all of this for him. Everything… everything …

“Like what?” Astarion answers for them, all petty exasperation. “Offer her a cuddle? Give her a stuffed animal? She’s a murderous lunatic, Karlach.”

Is that so different from Col? Why should one Bhaalspawn be treated with respect when they are, at their core, just as horrid? They wonder briefly if the others are thinking the same thing—aside from Astarion. He's already made his position on the matter clear. 

It’s different with you. You’re you.

Selfish man. He would watch the rest of the world burn if they were both standing safely away. Perhaps he would not enjoy it, and someday he may even object, but his self-interest will always win out. And how can Col possibly take issue with that, when his selfish love has been their lifeline?

“I’ll see how she is tomorrow.” Col says, firmly. “She would not thank any of us for invading her privacy tonight.”

It’s the truth, and the others accept it easily enough. Still, Col cannot help but wonder if it is truth or cowardice that drives them tonight. 

Colaniq? Not ready?

Astarion puts a hand on their shoulder and they turn easily, allowing him to overtake their focus. He’s so much easier than the rest of the world. 

Coltanar’ri. Not outcast.

“Do you think you can sleep now, darling?” His voice is low, more intimate than his most audacious seduction. “Or are we going to sit on the couch all night?”

Colmaglust. Even if they cannot find peace with their sister, it will be true. Not alone.

“I don’t think I will sleep, but I can at least move to a bed.” Their chest aches at his small smile, so gentle and fond. Col takes his hand when he offers it. They will rest. Even if they do not sleep, they will run their hands along his arms and trace the bones in his face, marveling at the resilience within. That is more than enough to reset their fears. 

Astarion kisses the back of their hand, then their wrist, then up farther until he reaches their neck. Oh. 

“Feed tonight,” Col rasps. “Please. I want—please.”

They can’t articulate the need, but that’s fine. He requires very little convincing.

Firmer kisses on their neck, a hand cradling the back of their head, and the faintest scent of staleness beneath bergamot and brandy.

“Very well, love. Come with me.”

Col. Not. 

They crawl into bed together, wrapped close enough that it feels as though their edges begin to blur even before Astarion bites down and literally takes them within himself.

Not alone. Not unloved. Not ready, perhaps, but also not too afraid to try.

“So,” Astarion says, turning Rhapsody over in his hands. It’s still strange to hold, but he’s making it his own. This is just good practice, really. “You’re the creature my darling has tied themself to. That makes you my problem as well, you know.”

Orin watches with those horrid, empty eyes, bobbing and twisting her head like a snake to follow his movements. He’s still not sure how exactly he feels about her. He doesn’t feel strongly enough about her outside of Col to really hate her. 

“They say they’re willing to kill you, but given what they did to bring you back, I'm not convinced. I, on the other hand, would gladly slit your throat.”

She cocks her head, leaning toward him like he’s seen her act with Col. It’s incredibly disturbing. He deserves an award for not flinching. “Is it jealous? Does it feel powerful, crowing its plans from outside a cage? If it was truly brave, it would come into the cage with me and duel properly.”

“You are both,” Col drawls from the doorway. “Being terribly childish.”

Astarion’s only solace is that Orin visibly startles as well. 

“Ah, darling. We were just…” Astarion glances between Col and Orin. Amusement and petulance. “...chatting.”

“I can see that.” Col doesn’t move from their position. It’s almost worrying. It might not be, to someone else, but Astarion can see the stiffness in their posture. He’s gotten to know their body very well, to the point of reading it like a book. They’re projecting more confidence than they feel. 

How is it that this frail, barely-alive creature makes them so unsure? For as long as he’s known them, Col has been a paragon of defiance and resolve. They faced down Bhaal himself (don’t think about it too much, don’t remember their drained body, don’t stare down and finally know what peace looks like on their face) with more backbone than this.

“After all, I’m as tied to her as you are.” He tries to say it lightly, curling affection around the syllables. They still flinch, only visible because he knows what to look for. What in the hells is going on with them? Are they truly hearing an accusation in his words? 

“What binds such pathetic corpses together?” Orin sounds irritated, almost whiny. Oh, gods below. Just when he gets rid of his obnoxious younger siblings. 

Astarion rolls his eyes and crosses to where Col stands, getting into their space without hesitation. (No flinch. Good.) He leans in for a kiss and relaxes with incredible relief when they meet him halfway. It takes no small amount of willpower to keep his hands from wandering all over their lovely body, but he manages. (Another award deserved! Perhaps he can trade all his excellent behavior in for a treat.)

He glances back at Orin, mockery on his lips, but it turns to poorly concealed laughter at the look on her face.

“You lay with a simple vampling, bloodkin?” Orin sneers, rudely. “Well. At least he is more worthy company than the Banite.”

He’s still close enough to feel some of the tension drain from Col’s shoulders. “You know, Orin, for once you make a good point.”

Perhaps there’s hope for the future after all.